Mudlark

So, in brief, it was a post from a wrecked jetty near Deptford Creek where the cormorants dry out, a place where you and I could live and fish. But I lost it, the last post that had quotes from Brautigan and Trout Fishing in America, the book we carried around all day, and especially the bit when he writes ‘Fuck you,’ I said to the outhouse. All I want is a ride down the river.’

Sideways hug, all my children born out that ear now, once a year forever now because of that sidling hug. Well, digging a well to pop them down. And we’re so up, coming with a cup for the nightly piss and splish now. Sideways kiss, missing the cheek and into the hair let down to incorporate the lovers’ frown, in debt to bigger banks we once rolled down, collecting leaves like the wig not mine or yours but all the several ways to hug, which are not permitted now.

Wear wedding dress to launderette, strip off to petticoat, ask to wash wedding dress in machines of heart broken customers, but offer to buy washing powder to be polite, wash til white dress is dirty grey. Take divorce photo with anyone who happens to be there. Keep shoes.